


The Impossibility of Ghosts and Their Counterparts

by PerhapsWeCanTry



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Fanfic, Other, Sherlock - Freeform, Supernatural - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 10:22:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7044532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PerhapsWeCanTry/pseuds/PerhapsWeCanTry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has never been stumped on a case. But as London experiences a growing problem with brutal murders, with no clear leads and no answers, he starts getting angry at his lack of obvious deductions. Finally, two familiar siblings, an angel and a demon arrive on scene, and start revealing a strange and illogical new world, one where evils are brewing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Impossibility of Ghosts and Their Counterparts

     Sherlock Holmes was a proud purveyor of the logical. If something seemed illogical, he'd pick and pry until it's gooey innards were revealed for his examination. Simplicity in complexity was something he valued—for every conundrum, there were equal and opposite answers. His principles, in a sense, were entirely reliant upon the immediate logical answers before him. It was this principle that had helped him solve numerous cases, and it was the same principle that he held to the highest standard.

     There were times when this principle was tried to its most absolute limits. The Dean Winchester Case was a tried and true example of this, and it was difficult to test his theories when he wasn't certain if the primary suspect was dead or alive. The international community had caught wind of the head-scratcher when Dean was found in St. Louis, or rather, his corpse. He'd been torturing women for a few weeks when he was shot suddenly by the police. He died, was buried in a nondescript cemetery with a generic headstone and no service. His brother disappeared, and the case faded into obscurity. It would've remained the same too, despite its brutality—if Dean Winchester hadn't miraculously showed up alive, his sibling in tow and surprisingly unharmed for taking a bullet to the brain. Unsurprisingly, he was at the head of another crime scene.

     They exhumed 'Dean's' corpse, and found _extremely_ unusual patterns of decay. It was something unseen by the community, and it became known as the Winchester effect. Scientists had been at wit's end trying to replicate the it in labs, but with little luck and dying patience. After all, the dermis was not supposed to decay in several layers, many of which with different genetic origins. They'd found Pacific-Islander layers of skin, West African layers of skin, and on the surface, Caucasian layers of skin. Dean's corpse was linked to every possible genetic race on the U.S. Census.

     In Milwaukee, a bank robbery was taking place. Armed and dangerous, the Winchester's told the police to stick it where the sun don't shine for three hours approximately. Up and kicking, and entirely alive.

     Then, a supposed hostage was having health problems, and said hostage was assisted outside by the very 'criminals' who kept him in. That was perhaps the most human touch of the entire ordeal—the intense desire to _help_ people presented by the Winchesters. There _were_ several hostages murdered, but Sherlock ran the figures, the alibis, the eyewitness accounts. The perhaps most exhausting part of that phase of investigation was the time table he painstakingly put together, the one that solidified the Winchester's innocence, of all things. It seemed someone else was attacking the hostages, and the siblings thought it was as good a time as any to contain it, despite the stakes.

     Sherlock had figured Dean and Sam were there trying to stop it from hurting people. Thus explaining why the remaining hostages were sealed in a vault, and why they claimed the siblings weren't _bad,_ despite the situation.

     SWAT later stormed the building, and despite the semi-automatic weapons, fearsome training and killer instinct, they'd _escaped._ Thus, the mystery was alight again, and that's when Sherlock had first smelled something fishy. Time and time again the brothers had given the police the slip simply because…nothing. That was the ultimate problem. Why, if the brothers were so wanted, were they so easily released?

     And that was Sherlock's crowning deduction. The brothers convinced those prosecuting them to release them. Every time they'd been arrested, small chaotic murders occurred, even if they weren't committed by the duo. Death quite literally followed them like a phantom, and after awhile the siblings used it to their advantage, he reasoned.

     Oh, Sherlock was positive they needed jail time. Completely and totally certain, but what he wasn't on board with was the murder charges. Credit card fraud, speeding, petty thievery, yes, he agreed. They were generally shady characters, but he was oh so very obsessed with their supposed killing spree.

     After the bank incident, they'd been caught for minor infringements, and then identified. Not a week later, the female police officer who detained them testified escape when her partner ended up dead—she shot him because of self-defense, of all things. When he died, police cover-ups were revealed by the same officer, no less, and the Winchesters again escaped. Turned themselves into a jail that was having trouble with inmate deaths, zero problem of escape—again.

     Again and again the siblings were seemingly absolutely screwed, and then they'd tuck tail and escape. The number of times they'd pulled off the stunt couldn't be counted on one hand. It couldn't be counted on two.

     The cases interested Sherlock to such a degree that he was tempted to call Victor Henrikson, the officer that proceeded the Winchester case. That is, had he not died. The Winchester trail went cold in Monument, Colorado, when a gas main exploded tragically, killing everyone inside the building. An incredible fifty plus dead, because for some reason, the confused townsfolk had gathered there overnight. All that remained were sets of charred bones, which shouldn't have been bones at all. Gas explosions could kill, but they couldn't melt flesh, and the pieces _again_ didn't click into place. Among other things, the Winchesters disappeared from the limelight.

     Sherlock fell into a bit of a haze after that—just a _little_ more evidence to solve his hobby case, just a few more sightings. The resources on the Winchester's dwindled when America started having problems with inconceivable sprees of violence, sickness, and deadly natural disasters. The only one who was seemingly interested in the Winchesters anymore was Sherlock.

     He was disappointed, beyond any perceivable scale. Certainly didn't have the funds, qualifications or general means to investigate in America, and his hobby case was growing cold. The States had been too swamped with crime, pestilence, and violence to even think of Sherlock's favorite Winchesters. He'd tucked away his cork board of evidence, photos, and testimonies for a rainy day, and continued on with the motions. The motions eventually included Moriarty, who was far too exhausting than even Sherlock could've imagined.

     Today was seemingly the rainy day, in the very much literal sense. He'd taken out the discarded piece of wood and plastic, leaning it against the couch and taking to the rocking chair in order to stare at it. His hands rested on his chin, blue eyes scanning every detail of the board, sometimes flitting to his violin, and he'd shake his head and continue his examination. John, dirty with rain and soaked with exhaustion walked up the steps to the flat, twisted the knob and glanced at his friend, sighing audibly when he saw what toy he'd taken out.

     "I thought this case had gone cold forever ago," said John, looking at Sherlock as he wrestled off his coat, "thought you'd lost faith in it. I mean, you shoved the bloody thing under your bed, stepped on one of the thumbtacks once. Tea?"

     "No, thank you. And John, you'd think the case is cold," Sherlock remarked, sighing and closing his eyes, "it's that no one has bothered to look any further than the surface evidence. I'm positive that the Winchesters are innocent for at least seven of the murders they're accused of. Maybe more, but I'd need to see the crime scenes for myself."

     "And they've been dismantled for a few years now," John continued, setting the kettle under the sink and filling it, "Sherlock, have you moved all day?"

     "It's raining, John. This is my rainy day case and I'm making some serious progress, so… no, no, Sherlock, _that's impossible…_ sorry, train of thought. Where was I? Oh yes, serious progress," Sherlock said, absentmindedly leaning towards his violin.

     "You haven't moved, then. I was in the _rain,_ Sherlock, and you're here talking to yourself," John growled, staring at the detective as he picked up his instrument case, "Lestrade is in knots. Has no idea what to make of the new murders, and could really use your help."

     "I'm sure he does need my help," said Sherlock, fine-tuning his violin before tucking its rest under his chin, "any reasonably normal police officer needs my help. If it's a cannibal my diagnosis is psychopath, and that's all you're getting for now. _John,"_ Sherlock said, pausing his song and staring at him intensely, _"I'm thinking."_

     "So you want me to get out, then," John said, staring at his friend incredulously, "and it's _raining."_

     "The tea will be cold, but the taverns warm," Sherlock said giving his friend the one smile he could manage, "maybe you'll enjoy it. Don't have too much fun, you might hurt yourself."

     "Shut up," John muttered, turning off the stove and grabbing his wet coat and umbrella, "I'm going for a drink, then."

~~~

     Sherlock was right, the taverns were plenty warm. John managed to find shelter in a relatively near one only a few blocks from his flat, stuffed with bodies watching rugby or football. It seems they too sought shelter from the rain, and as John entered a cheery bell rung and the chatter picked up volume, if for a moment. Blinking at the golden light, (very different from its gray counterpart outside,) John mustered up the strength and pushed his way through the throngs of people.

     The tables were absolutely packed, but he saw a lone seat at the bar and made a beeline towards it. He was lucky at all to find a seat in this crowd, especially one so close to the bartender. Pulling off his jacket, which was sticky from both rain and sweat, he set it on the stool and then sat on top of it. The man on his left was sipping scotch from a glass, and the man on his right was red-faced and clearly beyond comprehensive conversation. John leaned towards the patron on his left, hoping to speak without yelling. Said man just eyed him with a sense of arrogance, and took another sip.

      "You weren't saving this seat for anyone, were you?" John asked, adjusting the cloth beneath him before leaning into the bar.

     "No mate," the man said, setting down his glass, "you're fine."

     There was an awkward bout of silence, and John turned away from the man. Waving, he caught the attention of the bartender and ordered himself a pint, staring at the amber-gold liquid for a moment before taking a few big, satisfying gulps. He tried to pay attention to a game of rugby on the television behind him, but he was uninterested and turned back to the bar.

     How long had it been since he'd drunk like this? More than a few times after Sherlock had supposedly died, but his goal was to drink away any memory of the incident and sleep easy for once. No, it had been awhile since he was among men, among fellow bar-goers who were here to revel in the simple joy of alcohol, without being _completely_ drunk.

     He downed the last sip of his drink, raising his hand for another. He sighed and looked to the left again, at the man with the now replenished glass of scotch.

     "Hey, I'm John," he said, holding out his hand, "thanks for letting me sit. Tell me, that smells good—what brew, if I might ask?"

     "People call me Crowley," the man said, shaking his hand firmly, "and this blend is Craig. Tasty, but strong. Too much and you'll stumble home too drunk to know your hands from your feet."

     "Alright," John laughed, using the lull in conversation to take another sip of his refilled drink, "tell me, what do you do for a living?"

     Crowley eyed his now empty glass, sighing. "Management. CEO, if you will. It's a real pain sometimes, but very rewarding, if you're not on its business end, that is. Been with the company for a long while, so it was about damn time I got a promotion."

     "Really? That's great, man," John said, suddenly noticing how sharply dressed the man beside him was, "how big is the company?"

     Crowley chuckled. _"Big._ Very big mate, we've got a pretty large consumer service base."

     "Nice, nice. How's the economy been? Hope times haven't been too tough, always saddening when companies close," John remarked, taking a swig of ale, "your accent—is that Scottish I hear?"

     "Born and bred. As for the economy," Crowley said, glancing at John, "you wouldn't believe the poor saps who come to us for help. It's honestly pathetic, but I'm not complaining. Closing deals has been easier than ever. What about you? How do you bring in money for the missus?"

     "No missus, though I sometimes wish, knowing who I share an apartment with," John said, taking a long drink, "real pain sometimes."

     "Flatmate?"

     "Yep. Difficult as is too with the line of work, but I sometimes want to strangle the man," John joked, eyeing Crowley, "never be a flatmate with a sociopath detective. I've been dragged on so many crazy cases, you wouldn't even believe."

     "I'm sure," Crowley responded simply, staring at the glass in his hand, "sounds like a bad romance sitcom, from what I've heard alone."

     "Yeah…" John said, staring at nothing in particular, until his mind focused, "wait, _no,_ God no. Not like that at all. We're just in the same line of work, is all."

     "Hm," said Crowley, staring at John devilishly, "I'm sure that's all, Dr. Watson. Well," Crowley said, staring at a pocket watched he flipped open, "I've been called. See you around."

     "Good luck," John said absentmindedly. He was too busy thinking about what Crowley said to properly say goodbye. Setting down the glass, he began gathering his things and tugging on the sleeves of his jacket.

     Pulling out his phone, he began circulating through the content of his blog. Nothing revealed any particular clues as to what John was looking for, and when he started looking for key phrases nothing showed up either. He was not only growing more and more suspicious of this 'Crowley' character, but more and more wary of exactly what he was putting on the internet. Because two things were now certain—never once had he put 'sociopath detective' on his blog, nor had he ever posted a picture of his unshaven self. Dr. Watson, despite having no formal detective training, could certainly deduce that 'John' was a fairly common name.

     So how did a company big-wig such as Crowley figure out who he was? Because John was fairly certain that he never had said his last name.

~~~

     When John arrived home, he threw off his jacket and pulled open his laptop. Shoving a jar of dyed human spleen and blood samples from a random cadaver aside, he plugged in the device and waited for it to boot up. Something about Crowley made him anxious, a sort of anxious that he could only explain in military terms. It had been so long since he had felt this way too, thus explaining why he took awhile to identify the feeling.

     But for some reason, it felt like John Watson was being _hunted._ Predator-prey style hunting, and he couldn't put his finger on why. Something about Crowley made a small part of his instincts deeply, deeply afraid, he mused.

     When the infernal machine finally was properly running, John opened a browser, and typed in 'crowley.' John expected a Facebook, LinkedIn, something—Crowley was a _business man,_ after all— but there was _nothing._ He supposed Crowley might have been a nickname, but that didn't make any sense either, at least to John. If you were the owner of a business, wouldn't it be instinct to introduce yourself professionally, for the sake of future customers?

     He might not have been Crowley's targeted audience, but something about him doubted that also. Crowley mentioned a large consumer base. Surely John was included in at least a few of the demographics that he targeted.

     Searching the name alone produced an odd Wikipedia article on a man named Aleister Crowley, an English occultist in the early 1900's who believed in the practice of magick. He was quite the old bat, it seemed. He was trying to found his own religion, and he claimed to be a prophet. John quickly moved on from that article. The Crowley he met didn't seem to be involved in the dark and underground at all. He came across as too normal, of all things.

     When he looked beyond the initial search results, he started coming across a few random people, but none of them fit the description of Crowley. Diane Crowley on Instagram, Jason Crowley on Twitter—none of them were right. None of them were _the_ Crowley.

     Finally, he moved on from that search term. Instead, he typed in 'crowley company,' and thinking he had hit the jackpot, John was again disappointed to see nothing relevant. The Crowley shipping company was having a nice stock value increase, as was the Crowley grocer chain—known for their exotic fruits. The Crowley digital imaging company was well off, it seemed too. Apparently, there was a Crowley County in Colorado, and it's youth detention facility was a thing to marvel at.

     The hot, steaming pile of complete garbage left a sour taste in his mouth. The water in his hand had grown lukewarm, the cup of ramen noodles before him was now limp and flavorless. Leaning back from the table, John groaned and massaged his temples. He would ask Sherlock for help—except that Sherlock would surely laugh at him for even trying.

     There were lots of Crowley's, but only one _Crowley._

     Finally, in a last desperate attempt to find anything relevant, John searched 'crowley black suit,' and waited for the computer to load the results. Surprisingly, Google was empty. The page had no findings, not even advertisements, and all John could see was text under the search bar. His computer screen flickered for a moment, which was odd, but not frightening unless you saw the one suggestion.

_'Did you mean:_ **_black devil_ ** _?'_

     As soon as he mumbled the result aloud, confusedly, mind you, his computer fizzled to darkness. Despite his adamant button-pushing and the tip he used consistently—charging it— the computer had no reaction. After thirty minutes of angry cursing, shouting and general stomping about, the computer flickered back to life, all data completely reset from its hard drive.

     John was now annoyed. He'd had future blog posts typed out, he'd had emails ready to send, and he'd had the murderer profile information Lestrade had lent him open and ready for examination. This hunt had proved unsuccessful, and John had just about enough. He closed his computer and went up to bed, all but forgetting about the man named Crowley.


End file.
